


We'll Meet Again Someday

by himitsutsubasa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dr. Who - Freeform, Kid!John, Kidlock, M/M, Teen!Harriet, kid!Sherlock, teen!Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 03:20:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/himitsutsubasa/pseuds/himitsutsubasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock met during a vacation in the States. On Sherlock's last day, promised to meet again. But, the years went by. The promise to meet again faded and naught was remembered than a summer in Nantucket. Until one day,</p><p> </p><p>  <i>"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street." </i></p><p> </p><p>They met again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We'll Meet Again Someday

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [We'll Meet Again Someday](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/19405) by himitsutsubasa. 



> Check out Love-Sherlock-Holmes on deviantART. Request by Ammlott for Share the Sherlock Love week. 
> 
> I'm also very sorry for the feels this may inspire.

John shrugged of the feeling more than once. He had tried to enjoy the holiday, he really had. But there seem dot be a strong tugging every time he went out. It was like he was being watched.

Of course, he didn't tell anyone about it. Who would believe a twelve year old anyway? His mum had taken them on this trip more for her benefit than for their. She just wanted to get away from her husband's ghost. A year ago, John had come home to see men in dark coats by the door. He had gone inside to see his mum crying. She didn't tell him what was wrong. She just kept crying. Harriet, who was fourteen, had made dinner and put him to bed.

She was the one who told him that Father was dead. He had been shot in war. It had been close. Just a centimeter over and it would have missed his heart. She never sugar coated anything. Harriet was a strong girl. She was a tough girl. She didn't cry. John followed her example and didn't cry.

So he tried to enjoy Nantucket. His aunt lived there. She had gone on a holiday to Miami, another city in the States, and left them her big house on the coast.

John had been overwhelmed the first time he went there. Their accents had been so strange. He couldn't understand why people called coffee "cawfee". So, he kept well away from the sailors and the pier. For most of the summer, he followed Harriet around.

She complained that she wasn't legal in America. John found it odd that she didn't realize she wasn't' legal in Briton either. But, he followed her around and stayed out of the way while she talked to boys and went to parties. He still felt the eyes on him.

Half way through the holiday, he decided to do something about the eyes. He snuck out one night when his mum was asleep and Harriet wasn't home. John snuck out in his warm jumper and looked around. There was a light in the window across the way.

John stayed out of the way and started running. His little feet carried him across the picketed yard. He stopped at the base of the tree. The bark was rougher that he had thought. It would be hard to climb. John hadn't thought that far.

Tomorrow, he told himself looking at the window. Tomorrow he would find the person who was watching him.

* * *

John woke early. One thing he had learned remembered was that no one seemed to go to or from that house. That morning, he saw a blue car leaving the garage. There was a woman inside.

He peeked through the curtains and saw a man on the porch. He looked like he was older than Harriet. By his side was a bleary eyed boy. The boy was wearing a big t-shirt. John kept watching as they walked back in side. He waited and saw a figure appear in the room he tried to break into the night before. It was the boy, but all John could see was a mop of dark curls.

At breakfast, John learned that the people across the way were also British. They were the Holmes's. John thought the name was fitting. Harriet, who finally appeared a t breakfast, waved her fork at him and told him that he shouldn't chase shadows. She gave him a knowing smile.

He found a pair of gloves on his bed with a flashlight.

* * *

That night John tried a little harder. He crossed the yard and scaled the tree. The splinters hurt a little but not as much as he thought they would. He never thought the night would be so chilly, though the people Harriet talked to told him this year was colder than most.

He made his way to the window and peeked in. The boy was there. John recognized him to be a lot younger. He looked like he was around seven or six. He was scrawny and a little coltish. He was reading a big book. John could make out the words "pirate" and "treasure island".

He put his hand to the window. Should he knock? He pulled his hand back and ran across the street.

Tomorrow, he would knock tomorrow.

* * *

The next morning he tried to erase the dark circles under his eyes. They were big and blotchy. Mum would know he wasn't sleeping at his bed time. Harriet banged on the door.

"I need the shower!" John gingerly opened the door.

Harriet's eyes popped out of her head. "Dang." She used a lot of American words.

"You look like road kill." John knew that something that died on the road was very flat. Little did he know: his definition was close.

She glanced around and made sure that their mother was in the kitchen. Then she pulled him in and rubbed some stuff under his eyes.

It must have attested to Harriet's skill that their mum didn't notice the concealer under his eyes.

* * *

That night, John ran across the street again. He scaled the tree more carefully, avoiding the prickly parts. When he got to the window, he found it open.

"Hello." The boy was sitting there, looking like a little ghost.

"I'm John." John said in reply.

The boy gave him a once over before saying, "Essex or East End?" John gave him an odd look.

"Essex," John replied before realizing how the boy knew.

The boy didn't seem to be paying attention. "Oh, good. I was right." John looked blankly at the boy.

"Right?"

"Yes. I thought you were from either the east end or of Essex, which you have just confirmed."

"Confirmed?" John parroted back.

Then boy frowned. "Yes. Must you repeat what I say?" John shook his head. This was surreal.

"Were you the one who was watching me?" The boy nodded.

"I get bored," he said.

John settled more comfortably on the branch. "Why so you get bored?"

"I can't go outside. Mycroft say's it's bad for my health."

John cocked his head to one side. "Who's Mycroft?"

"My brother." The boy shivered. "He's seventeen and already running the British government." The chilled air must have been getting into the room.

John glanced at the clock on the boy's wall. He wouldn't get much sleep. The boy seemed to sense his urgency.

"Come back tomorrow?"

"Sure," John said while climbing back down. At the base of the tree he stopped.

"I don't even know your name," he whispered. The dark mop of hair appeared over the ledge.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes." John heard the hushed whisper drift down to him and retreated to his room.

"So you like pirates?" Sherlock had his window open again. John had discovered the boy was eight years old and a little small for it. But, what he lacked in height he made up for in brains.

John had never seen someone who could recite the first fifteen pages of Treasure Island from memory.

Sherlock gave him a particularly sparkling grin. "Yeah, I want to be a pirate one day."

"You do realize that there are no more pirates," John queried.

Sherlock sniffed. "Of course I do. I want to be an actor who plays pirates at the cinema." John grinned.

"That's good."

"What do you want to be?" John looked at Sherlock's round face.

"Anything but a soldier."

"Your father was a soldier." Sherlock looked a little surprised at himself. "Did he die?"

John's breath hitched. "Yeah, he did." He felt his eyes ready to brim over.

"You know, I never see my father." John looked up to see Sherlock draw his knees to his chest. "He goes off on business and I don't see him. Mummy cried a lot." He looked at John. "Please don't cry. I never know what to do."

John wiped his eyes. "I won't cry." His hand met Sherlock's head, tousling the soft curls. They talked until Sherlock was asleep on the window sill and John's eyes lids were drooping.

"John, can we play again?" He heard as he climbed down.

"Of course, Sherlock, but you have to get stronger first," was his reply.

There was the hush and finally: "I will."

* * *

The next day, a knock came at breakfast. His mum went to get it.

John could barely stop his face from landing in his plate of toast. He did manage to eat all of it though. Harriet looked worried but for only a second. A girl, who John vaguely remembered, told her there was a volleyball game by the beach. His mum seemed to be in greater spirits though, she didn't comment on his lack of sleep.

"I'm looking for John Watson?" John turned to see the pudgy man there. He was Sherlock's brother, Mycroft.

"Here." John wondered why Mycroft would want his attention.

Mycroft turned to see him as he walked into the sitting room. "Ah, John Watson, it's a pleasure. I see my brother has been keeping you up all night." He smiled, which should have been reassuring but was actually quite contrary.

"Yeah, Sherlock. Why? Is something wrong?" Mycroft sighed.

"I suppose there is. You see, your midnight visits disturb his schedule. That is what the doctor have called absolutely necessary, since he is ill." John's mother frowned at him.

"However, he has benefited from company. I am not wrong to suppose you are the reason for his sudden increase in appetite." Mycroft raised an inquiring brow. His mother did too.

John yawned. "I don't know, maybe?"

"You have. But let's keep the visits to daylight hours alright?" John nodded.

Mycroft turned to his mum. "Could I borrow John for the day? Sherlock seems to have taken a liking to him." He gave her the same smile he gave John. "You see, my brother is weak and can't play as he likes. Most children stay away from him. Your son is a great light in his days."

His mother seemed to think about it. Finally, she replied, "But he has to be back by dinner."

Mycroft only grinned. "Don't worry, Emma, the housekeeper, makes the most delicious meals. I think John will find everything to his liking. I hope he has had breakfast? If not, we have pancakes." He seemed truly happy at the word pancakes. His mother rolled her eyes and shooed him off the Holmes's home.

Sherlock was trying to demolish a piece of toast as John walked in. John couldn't help but find the sight cute. Sherlock, upon hearing the door open, automatically swiveled and dropped the toast.

"John!" Sherlock launched himself at the older boy. John just tried to stop himself from smiling like a mad man.

"Hey, Sherlock." The younger boy really did seem to be more energetic. He gazed at John in wonder.

"You're better looking in daylight, you know." Mycroft made a choking sound.

John just smiled and placed it as an eccentricity. "Thank you. Now, eat your breakfast to we can play." Sherlock made the plate disappear without argument.

Sherlock was bouncing along the hall to his room. "Pirates or castles? I read about William the conqueror and how he defeated feigned retreat."

John smiled. "Both."

He might have thought himself odd to play imaginary castles and ships with a boy 3/4ths his age. But, he didn't care.

* * *

They spent as much time together as possible. There weren't many people their age and even fewer who didn't mind they were Brits. They spent their days playing imagination games that Sherlock made at the drop of a hat.

They spent a lot of time on the beach building sand castles or reading in Sherlock's room, since that didn't exert too much effort.

* * *

One day, John arrived a little late and saw Sherlock in a maze of rectangular sand blocks.

"What is this?" Sherlock looked up from where he was making an intricate one.

"London." John stared at the blocks. It didn't look anything like London. Sherlock finished the one he was working on.

"This is West Minster chapel." He pointed to where John was standing. "You're in Trafalgar Square." He pointed farther off. "There's Soho and West End." John stepped out of the square and back up a few steps. It took a moment but he reconciled the uni-color blocks with the blocks on the map. He recalled the map from his trip to Buckingham palace. It looked like it.

Knowing Sherlock, it was an exact replica.

"Sherlock, did you take coffee this morning?" John knew a gulp of black coffee with two sugars was enough so send the little boy into a burst of spectacular productivity.

Sherlock started carving out the office buildings of the financial district. "A sip. Emma wouldn't let me have more." John sighed.

"How's you tell me where the house of Parliament is. I think I know how to make the front." Sherlock grinned.

They managed to carve out half of London before the tides washed their city away.

* * *

John did get Sherlock strong enough to go to the carnival at the Warf. There was a lot of fussing and "Don't stay out to late, dears," from Emma, who took to John and his no nonsense ways of dealing with Sherlock's eating habits like a fish to water, and John's mum, who felt a little uneasy that her boy was growing so attached to the littler Holmes but she promptly fell in love with Sherlock when she met him.

"John! Look that bear has the same jumper as you!" John looked down at this striped jumper and to the dangling bear. Sure enough, his sweater was an identical to the toy's.

"I'll win it for you alright, but you have to sleep at your bedtime." John had taken on the responsibility of getting Sherlock in bed at nine every night. Sherlock was a whiner.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Okay, but only if you win that bear."

John walked up and paid the man before pining up the air rifle. John counted that he would have to hit the large target and the middle sized targets on either side. He aimed and fired.

One target down. Focus, he told himself. Breathe deeply. He shot again hitting the first middle sized target next. The last shot was a near miss.

John frowned. He put a bother pile of quarters on the table. The man got out of the way. Instinctively, John pulled the trigger.

Bang. John hit the smallest target at the top of the board. When it righted itself, he hit it again.

Bang. By the time he got around to hitting it the third time, there was a small crowd. He took a breath and fired.

Bang. They cheered as the target fell again. The man gestured to the largest prizes.

"That one." John pointed out the bear instead. There was a small chuckled of appreciation as many noticed his jumper. The man gave it to him with a smile.

Sherlock was as wide eyed as many of the spectators. "You are a very good shot." John laughed.

"Not really. Here's your bear." Sherlock took it and gave it a tight squeeze. Then, he got on his tip toes and kissed John's cheek. John heard a few people go "aww" at Sherlock's display of affection. There was a flash that momentarily blinded them.

The man, John read his tag said Steve, was holding up a Polaroid. "I think you deserve a place on our wall." He took the first shot out and had John stand with one arm around Sherlock and the other on the gun.

Click. He smiled as the photos developed. The first was of Sherlock, eyes closed, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek as he looked on in surprise. The other was their posed photo. Steve gave him the first photo.

"Another one?" John looked at the other toys. "That one." He chose a black bear that had a blue ribbon around its neck. By then the crowd had dispersed and they were free to do as they liked.

John introduced Sherlock to the delicacy that was fairy floss, though people there called it cotton candy. Then Sherlock treated him to two rides at the Ferris wheel.

That night, he led a bleary eyed Sherlock up the steps. Sherlock yawned, his mouth opening into a small cavern.

"Goodnight, Sherlock." John tousled the dark hair.

"Good night, John." Sherlock nuzzled the bear and went inside.

* * *

"I'll get you!" John chased Sherlock around the room.

"Argh, never you land lubber!" Sherlock waved a broomstick at him. They sparred, sending dust everywhere. John was the naval officer and Sherlock was a pirate. They would fight for treasure. John would bring it back to his queen. Sherlock would keep it hidden if he didn't.

Sherlock won this round and the treasure was hidden again. John, surprised he had lost to an eight year old, was a little disappointed until Sherlock told him he would have never won in the first place. He had too many openings and Sherlock had taken four years of fencing lessons.

Sherlock put his broomstick away. "Why don't we play knights instead?" Sometimes, John wondered where this boy got all of his imagination and adventure from. Sherlock gave him a smirk.

"You'll be the knight."

John laughed. "And you'll be the damsel?"

Sherlock jumped on top of his bed. "No. I'll be the dragon! Roar!"

John frowned. "Shouldn't there be a princess or treasure?"

Sherlock looked about and said, "No. There's just a dragon and a knight." He made his scariest face, which John thought was adorable. Sherlock was as dangerous as a kitten and sneezed like one too.

"Come at me foul beast!" John waved a broom at Sherlock, who roared and threw pillows at him. John abandoned the broom in favor of tackling Sherlock. They wrestled in a fit of giggles.

"John!" Sherlock yelped as the tumbled off the bed and onto the floor. Sherlock landed with a thump and John landed on top of him. They both panted, taking shaky breaths. John couldn't move. His body stiffened as Sherlock wriggled against him.

"John." Sherlock's voice took on a more pleading tone. He looked up with big, verdigris eyes. John gasped.

Sherlock began in a whisper, "You know, the dragon had a curse. He was a handsome prince before he was a dragon." Sherlock began to sit up. "He was the prince of a wealthy country, but was cursed by his evil brother."

"Why?" John asked. His eyes never left Sherlock's face.

"His brother wanted the throne." Sherlock's lips parted and he licked them. "But, there was a way out of the curse. It was that someone would have to kiss the prince when he was a dragon." Sherlock smiled a little. "It had to be a knight."

John leaned forward tentatively. Sherlock met him in a chaste kiss. They pulled apart like an electric shock had torn through them.

John gulped. "But that isn't a real kiss."

Sherlock's smile faded. "But it is to the dragon."

* * *

They went on as if it never happened. Sherlock had sent a very well written letter of apology for an eight year old. John had come over with a broom and all was forgotten. They enjoyed the rest of the holiday as the month changed and the chill wasn't only from a yearly anomaly.

Sherlock looked up from the Monopoly board and sighed. "I have to go home." John looked about. Sherlock's room was sparser than usual, but his thing still littered the shelves.

"I thought you are home," John said as he moved his dog. Sherlock rolled the dice and moved his top hat.

"I mean to London. Father's going to be back and Mummy wants us to meet him at Heathrow." John nodded. Their summer days were almost over.

"How long do we have?"

Sherlock fiddled with the pieces. "I leave tomorrow." John gasped.

"You're going tomorrow!" He jumped to his feet. For a moment, he was angry. Sherlock hadn't told him when he was going until the last minute. John knew getting angry wouldn't give him more time.

"You idiot, that means we only have this afternoon." He pulled Sherlock to his feet. "There are so many things we still have to do."

For the next three hours, they made the most of it. They played pirates again and this time John won. John dragged Sherlock into the surf and they raced to the light house. They annoyed the fluffy Pomeranian next door and laughed like they would never laugh again.

That night, Sherlock begged for one last sleep over. John's mum said yes and sent John's flannels along.

"Sherlock, you are an idiot." John curled up next to Sherlock. They were in Sherlock's bed, wishing tomorrow wouldn't come.

Sherlock, whose emotions were already cloudy, whispered, "I know. I just thought… You'd be sad." John nuzzled his soft, curly locks.

John chuckled. "I could never get angry at you." Sherlock snorted. "For long, at least."

There was a soft yawn. "Goodnight, John." A nose nuzzled his neck and arms wrapped around his midsection.

John kissed the head that rested under his chin.

Goodnight, Sherlock."

* * *

John stared at the little striped bear in the morning. Sherlock was clinging to it like his life depended on it.

Sherlock's mother, a flame haired woman, talked with his mum. They were laughing. Mycroft was astutely avoiding Harriet, who hated him as a cat hated water.

They were ready to get pile into the thunderbird when Sherlock ran back to John.

"Promise you'll come back. I'll be here." Sherlock burrowed into John's argyle jumper. "Always."

John nodded he knew Sherlock returned to Nantucket every summer. John had asked his mum to let them come back another year.

"We'll meet again, someday." Sherlock wiped his eyes and kissed John's cheek before running to the car.

The blue thunderbird drove away and John held onto his black bear.

We'll meet again.

Someday.

* * *

John went back to London in the fall. He joined the football team and stated playing rugby with the neighborhood boys.

His thin layers of fat and soft muscle grew toned and he became the prized forward. People said a team would pick him when he grew older. School wasn't as bad as he thought it would be. He worked as hard as he could to make sure his mother couldn't have any reason to call off the trip the next summer.

* * *

Sherlock greeted his father as he usually did.

"Hello, Father."

"Hello, Sherlock." The tall man knelt. "Tell me, did you make any new friends?"

Sherlock nodded. "I met a boy named John Watson. He was really nice." His father laughed and told him about a girl named Rose and her boyfriend, Mick, and adventures that weren't real.

Sherlock laughed, but didn't let go of the blonde bear.

* * *

The following summer, John's mum told him they hadn't the money. John didn't complain. Sherlock would be there, always.

He kept playing hoping that he would be good enough to make forward his first year of secondary. He took less time out of his schedule for school and more time for rugby. He was undeniably good at both.

At the end of that summer, his mother announced they were going to move. They couldn't afford to keep the house. John just bit his tongue and packed the black bear and photos along with his things.

That school year was the year the team won the championships. That was the year he made more friends. That school year he got his first kiss.

John called it his first because Sherlock didn't count.

Eventually, he forgot about the bear and the photo.

He forgot the promise.

* * *

Sherlock went back year after year. He wanted to talk to John about how things had changed. He looked forward to showing John exactly how tall he had grown, how strong he was.

John was never there. He busied himself learning how to defend himself. The boys at school beat him up. He had bruises and cuts from when they threw him onto the pavement. Mycroft was no help over at Oxford. Sherlock learned to stand alone.

He grabbed the broom he used to fence with and practiced. Many a vase was sacrificed in his practices. Emma eventually shooed him out and told him to practice in the back yard.

He still held onto the bear.

* * *

John grew to be a handsome young man. His blond hair was soft and lush. His eyes always glimmered with a secret joke. His unassuming manners and comfy habits made him a favorite. Everyone loved John Watson.

Harry came out of the when she left for college. Harry had gotten into a community college and was going to work her way through. When Harry was a junior, she brought home her girlfriend. John and his mum met the infamous Clara.

Not long after, John learned with a jolt his mum had cancer. She had a pretty bad version of leukemia. John and Harry were both tested. Neither came up as a possible donor. John went through every option until the end.

When his mother died, he promised himself he would be a doctor.

He would be a bloody good one.

When he was old enough, he broke his promise.

He enlisted.

* * *

Sherlock waited every summer until it was time for him to go to Uni. All he ever saw was John's maiden aunt coming and going. The tree John climbed to meet him was cut. He tried not to cry. He did catch wind of the Carl Powers case. But that was years ago. Since then, he had called in anonymously from different pay phones with Mycroft's CCTV camera help.

One night, he decided to make a change. He'd trained himself in the method of Loki. He could do it.

Sherlock closed his eyes and clasped his hands around the plush jumper-wearing bear. In his mind palace, he found John's room. It was a big room filled with sand. There was a map of London half washed away. A pile of swords from varying eras were piled in a corner. The walls and ceiling were the blue of John's eyes. Tacked across were the grey clouds of arguments and the rainbows of resolutions. There was a wardrobe of laughter. Inside the light piece of furniture were jumpers made of jokes and pranks.

Sherlock eyed the bed. It was a replica of his bed in Nantucket. But, this time it was made of John's favorite books and games. He ran his hands over the sheets. They were made of unsent letters. The ones he had written over the years but never had an address to send them too. The pillow was the soft comfort of John's praise.

Sherlock glanced at the ceiling. The whole room was lit with the power of John's promise. Over the years, the light had faded. Now, in near darkness, Sherlock wandered to the shelf and put down the bear. He set it next to the pictures of John's facial expressions and the shells that sounded like his laughs.

He ran his hands over the bear one more time before leaving.

He closed the door and deleted the room.

* * *

When he awoke the next morning, Sherlock felt the sudden gap of loneliness. There was a soft toy in his hands. He didn't' recognize it. Sherlock tossed it aside and took a shaky breath. He felt like he was missing something. His life wouldn't be complete without it.

That fall semester he discovered cocaine. It made him forget the emptiness.

He never once thought what John would think.

* * *

John went through the training and learned to use a gun. When, his hands first touched the trigger, he had pulled instinctively.

That day he put five bullets through the center of a target.

His fellow trainees clapped him on the shoulder cheered him or asked him if he had gang connections. His commander gave him a nod on the way out.

John didn't notice any of it. All he felt was the touch of a ghost on his cheek.

* * *

Sherlock kicked the habit. He did it for work. All his life revolved around was work. It filled the emptiness. It took away the hollow feeling he had. Instead he threw himself into Lestrade's world. He took risks. He did whatever he could to find puzzles. It was all because, in that moment, when he realized what the puzzle maker was getting at, his mind blanked.

That was the moment he forgot that he was so empty inside.

* * *

John got shot. It was close, Murray said. Just a centimeter over and he would have been a dead man.

The significance wasn't lost on him.

John went back to London. He went back to normalcy.

When he saw videos of soldiers racing through gun fire and escaping the mass destruction of bombs, he wished he was there with them.

He never told anyone on his blog.

* * *

Sherlock chose to move out. He went through flat after flat and flat mate after flat mate trying to find one who would put up with him.

"It can't be that bad." Stamford was a professor at the college Sherlock spent his free hours at. It had occurred to both of them that Sherlock wasn't supposed to touch the equipment. A large donation to Bart's from the Holmes's account took care of that.

Molly came in and out, running errands. Sherlock ignored her simpering.

"Who would want me for a flat mate?" Sherlock asked no one in particular.

Stamford just furrowed his brows and went off for lunch.

* * *

John walked through the park trying not to walk to fast. His limp was psychosomatic, but he still didn't want to aggravate his leg.

"John! John Watson!" John turned to see a familiar boyish face. They had coffee and talked for a bit. They eventually got to the matter of his living situation.

"Who'd want me for a flat mate?" Mike chuckled and John knew he was going in for a penny.

They caught a cab back to Bart's and Mike introduced him to the man. John's first impression of him was grace. He had some fluidity to him that looked like the sinuous muscle of a panther. His dark violet shirt was tight on his chest. It seemed like it was old, but he had never bothered to buy another. John could imagine a coltish adolescent. The shirt would have been perfect then but the man was more muscular than his past self. The colt had become a stallion.

There was an odd conversation and the man made to leave.

John stopped him asking, "Is that all?"

"Is what all?" The man seemed amused. His interest was piqued by the little soldier.

"We just met and we're looking for a flat? We don't know the first thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name." John tried to reign in his frustration. Frustration never got anyone anywhere they wanted to be.

The man took a breath. "I know you are an army doctor recently invalidated form Afghanistan. You have a brother, but you won't go to him for help. Probably, because he is a drinker, more likely, because he just walked out on his wife. Your therapist also thinks your limp is psychosomatic. Quite right I'm afraid. Is that all? Good."

John stared on in awe. The man had gotten all of that, practically his life's story in a moment. It was disconcerting and comforting, a rare and strange amalgamation.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street."

Sherlock winked with a click of the tongue. He was gone.

John was just a little entranced. Just a little.

* * *

John finally finished unpacking. He and Sherlock had decided to retire to the country. Sherlock and his bees were thriving and leaving John to do the brunt of the work.

John carefully unpacked a box appropriately called "Sherlock's stuff". John sliced through the packaging tape and opened the box. Inside he saw a bear. It was blonde and wore a striped jumper. The striped were faded and it looked a little worse for the wear. John couldn't find it in his heart to call it dingy. He thought a better term was well loved.

John could imagine a young Sherlock clinging onto it and Mycroft would be a stern seventeen year old. He and Harry would have hated each other. John could see a family vacation and a lot of make believe.

And it seemed more like reality than fiction.

John recalled he had a similar box in the foyer and went off to find it. When he did, the top was slit and the contents outturned with a clatter. He dug through desperately searching for something that said he wasn't insane or that this was a big dream. John found a black bear and a photo.

He recognized himself in the striped jumper. He looked so very surprised. Next to him was a thin coltish boy kissing his cheek.

"Sherlock," he breathed. The dark curls were still there but the features had the round, untried exuberance of youth.

John sat there on the floor of the foyer. He remembered all the days they spent. They made a map of London on the beach, and the games. He even remembered Sherlock's first kiss. It had been his too.

And he felt guilt. He had promised to return. He promised they would have been together again. Back then, he knew Sherlock had taken it as seriously as a proposal. Now, he felt grieved. How much damage had he inflicted, if Sherlock hadn't been willing to acknowledge him? Had Sherlock been so angry that he deleted the information?

A set of chapped lips pressed against his cheek.

"John. What are you looking at?" Sherlock gazed at the photo and a sudden shock overcame him.

"Is that us?" John nodded.

"Do you remember that summer?" Sherlock thought for a second.

"No, I don't suppose I do. But, I remember that I felt lonely after I deleted a memory." He looked stricken. "I deleted a summer with you."

John shook his head. "It's my fault. I left you alone." Sherlock pulled him into a tight embrace.

"I left you too. But, we both came back." John nodded taking Sherlock's hand.

"I just wonder, what it would have been like if we hadn't forgotten. I would have had a life time with you." Sherlock rubbed John's face.

"You would have died of high blood pressure."

John chuckled. "I suppose I would." He admired the person in front of him with new appreciation. There were some grey touches on Sherlock's temples. His hair was still a dark coal. His face remained unlined for the most part. There were wrinkles around his eyes from laughing. He still looked handsome in that alien way. If he looked carefully, John could still see the remains of the little boy he forgot. But, the man before him had aged with him. They had grown old like any couple bickering and teasing.

Sherlock grinned. "How about we make good on that promise?"

"Oh, god, yes."

* * *

That summer John aired out the Holmes' house in Nantucket. It hadn't been until a then that he realized Mrs. Hudson of Baker Street had been the housekeeper of the Nantucket summer home. Sherlock had confirmed as much.

John wandered into the room where Sherlock used to sleep. It was smaller than he recalled. But, it stil held the warmth of fun and games. He remembered jumping across boats made of stacked chairs. Then there was the fortress of pillows Sherlock made when he pretended to be a dragon. John laughed at how silly they had been, but how innocent and kind they were too.

Warm arms wrapped around him, jolting him out of a reverie.

"I think we're going to visit often," Sherlock purred.

John gazed out the window and into the street. He could see two children playing in the yard. One was dark haired. The other was a golden blonde. The blond was older but the dark haired one was pushy. They adored each other to no end.

John smiled. "Yeah."


End file.
